Witty Fay

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Licorice love

​You wore me out
Of words and sighs
Of days and lies
And all those flippant
Kites that burst out
Of my chest in colors
When mornings whisper
Dewy wails
On my swollen cells.
As I lift the body
Of my barren fruit
Into the gooey sun
You spout rivers of veins
Of my ribless bones
And I welcome your thievery
Into the moistness of me
With unbounded coils.
​

Of life

A length of hair traded
For the health of a child,
Tongue-tied mornings
That breathe of sweaty worry
And the scent of hope
Rising against the flimsy dawn.
I hear color 
Fabricating foamy trolls
Under caramel bridges,
The way it modulates the eye
In bright shades of bitterness.
There lies the promise of a half-day
On the sycamore tree
Of flaking joys,
Uprooted and swallowed
Into the wombless fire
Of the one who sells the mane 
To cheat fate. 
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       Companion Poems

Inside view
 
All the women I have been
Through the great tower of years,
Claiming their place 
Under my skin,
Biting at the hem of time
In the seven day worth
Of my still.
Stepping on puddles of joy
As the soles smell of
Burnt fingertips
Crushing the day's crop.
Fate flows unimpeded
Through their obsidian veins,
Its open vessels in line.
And the women whisper 
Loud chants as they encircle
The steps that foretell the vine.
And their song inhabit the lips
Tainted by the red of the wine
Unmade.
​
Outer view

Dream a dream that is not a dream
Under the orange light of the hissing moon
Ghost love throbbing within the flesh
Like a heartbeat fallen between the legs
Then coiled at the feet of a sea dawn,
Glaring at the day with hellish eyes
Of a pain that would walk unhindered
The days of the woman 
And the nights of the man.
There is but one more circle to sketch
Until pain is denuded of all leaves
And the locomotive of flesh resumes 
Its pace.
​

Self-emitted

Take the lid off
and whisper
the mason jar into
submission,
the way fireflies
crave for it
on August warmth.
Waiting for the
clouded heart
of the glass
to glow into
being,
and smother
life out of
the cold light,
capsizing passion
in 628 cubic inches
of cloistered freedom.
Such quite riot
obliterates the 
redness
of the clearing
Within history's 
grand march,
as I count the 
gossamer chains
that bind us
into the stories
we tell ourselves
to survive outside
the lidless jar.

Eudaimonia

This is a gracious lesson
On how to love me less,
For in soothing you,
My heart shall no longer
Crave the beat of the day.
First, bury my face
Under piles of other stories,
Eye-catching and promising.
Fade my eyes into oblivion,
Breaking the sockets open,
And wasting their glow.
Sprinkle salt on all
My nakedness,
So that the taste of me
Shall no longer numb your days.
Shape me into 
A cunning, all-too-loving
Creature of the flesh and silver.
As for the heart 
-mine or yours-
Smoke it into cinders,
And wither the flame 
Into clouds of fire flies.
Yes, pick a summer night,
For the morning shall clad
Me into a burst of glee,
And your freed spirit
Shall be my reward.

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I, linguistic animal

There is this frigid weather inside my bones.
As I measure my coldness in the marrow of the day,
The blue of the ink and the silver of the words,
Coil around my shoulders to warm the arms that carry them.
And I bid their personal music to speak to you
And my frames to smolder quietly, against the ice.
So I say: Occupy the words!
Squeeze your all into them and own their every fiber
Till they borrow your skin and you clothe theirs.
This silent speaking of mine is a risk
I always fail to see in the way you take it,
Building a mighty crimson architecture
Inside a half peeled pomegranate of Persia
For words of you are blood builders
Of such cold days of mine.
​

Deliverance

​The last of you
Dwells at the tongue’s root
Swathed in veins of slender
Woven to some other
Inner chamber of words.
A day came when you looked at me
And nothing in me broke.
The shards were sewn again
And self-cursed blessings
Turned into stone.
Today I am painting all still
On the wallpaper of the little people
That grow nettles for roses
And pebbles for seeds.
I know what to ask of their grit-
To fight my eyes from such light
Into repetitive blindness.
​

Hedonia

The air of lazy mornings
And love-making,
Warm flakes on happy cheeks,
Hoarse voice whispering 
Contentment,
Mesmerized taste buds
And stingy eyes,
The scent of sidewalks
Just after the rain,
Musty old bookshops
And baby skin,
Matchsticks burning
Inky fingertips,
The sound of the muses
On fresh paper,
Bleached sheets
On a soft breeze,
The saltiness of the sea
On a stormy night,
The veneered humidor
Of an elegant man,
Freshly cut cedar
On dirty hands,
Velvety chocolate
Next to red erasable markers,
And above all,
The taste of you.

Of quill and quire

All my little words
Stuffed into your large pockets
Next to the coins and the veins,
Into a symphony of silver, red and vowels,
As the truth burns a hole into the day,
The size of a soaring kite,
Running the ashy hills into the zenith.
Inventoring every room of its mind,
Yet your hands climb their cotton rim
Of kindness,
To grab heaven by the beard
And pull stars into my lap,
Where more little words are daintly
Uttering life into syllables,
Ready to ignite stories
Into your large pockets.

Womanly

I stay with the sentence until it is done
Measuring all the silent words
That lurk behind the uttered lips.
I wish they wouldn’t bustle up my throat
To choke me blind and dry
With the smell of old blood.
And then your mother-of-the-pearl smile
Smoothens the flowing of all syllables
Into the face of the world,
And I turn into a wizard of the unspoken,
Throwing troths at the trees that bear no fruit
Until branches, like full breasts, touch the arbor of the sky-
I do it blindfolded, on fleshy hips.

Accrual of Habit

Love never changes midweek.
It takes a long weekend 
To ruin the random understanding 
Of its death,
The agony of longing and all those
Broken embraces hanging midair.
I wish I could settle on a kiss
As my first move,
But then, there are cinders
In my mouth and a great heaviness
Coiling at my feet,
And the taste of burned dreams
Seems sad as well as bitter.
Still, today is a young Wednesday,
So let us agree on 
A trace of gentle tenderness
And speak less through the week. 

The arithmetics behind the hug

When out of numbers,
We could count the heartbeats
And the way they softly translate into hugs.
One at dawn,
Cracking the shells of the day,
Two more at noon,
In the steaming warmth of the senses,
Half a hug,
As you command the core of the day
Into submission,
A couple of hug-free hours,
Sloven in thought,
Bearing resemblance to the tarried clouds,
And the rest of the longing embraces,
Too many to tally,
Too few to save,
Shall fall silently between the starched sheets,
To shelter from all the harms of the dark.

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